Penny sits back numbly.
“Oh, boy,” says Connor.
Penny is shaking her head. She twists the evil eye bead on her wrist, her breath coming in shallow gulps. “I have to call Brenda.”
“Penny—”
“Why would she say that, Connor? Why?”
“Penny.” Connor takes her wrist, speaking so quietly he’s hardly audible. “I need you to stay calm.”
“ ‘Catastrophic cerebral hemorrhage’?”
“Obviously, whoever tried to kill us thinks we’re dead. If we use a phone that’s not secure, they’ll know we’re alive—and exactly where we are.” Penny opens her mouth, and he adds, “That goes for email, too. It would take about a minute to match our IP address with this location.”
“Just use a VPN!”
“A VPN.” Connor raises his eyebrows in triumph. “And you say Zach didn’t train you?”
Penny barely masters her frustration. “Palamut blocks any site he thinks might threaten his authority. Half the time, you need a VPN to watch cat videos!”
Connor shakes his head. “Even if they can’t find us right away, they’ll still know we didn’t die.”
“How about we go straight to the hospital? Or the nearest TV crew? I’ll show them how dead I am!”
“If Palamut’s the one who wants us dead, that could be the last thing you ever do. Right now, the only reason nobody’s trying to kill us is because they think we’re already dead. And until we can get some help from my boss, that is literally the only card we hold.”
Penny lets Connor nudge her chair aside. He pulls up a familiar site.
“Please tell me the CIA doesn’t use Gmail.”
Connor gives a half grin. “We’re not all as dumb as Petraeus. You should look away. This is classified.”
Penny crosses her arms. “No.”
Connor shrugs and logs into an account for D. J. M. Cornwell.
“Is that your real name?”
“Nope.”
“Is Connor your real name?”
“What makes you think it’s not?”
Connor clicks on an email, dated this morning, with the subject line Re: Mom’s banana fritters. The text reads simply, Hi honey. This is the one I usually use—just double the nutmeg. There’s a link, leading to what appears to be a Culinary Institute of America baking blog.
Penny stares. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“When we can’t access a secure connection, we have to do it the old-fashioned way. Send a message in plain sight. In the old days, they’d take out a classified ad in the newspaper or chalk a cross on some back-alley wall. This is a lot faster and more secure. We just use the comments section. Do you have any idea how many cooking blogs there are?” He sounds defensive. “It’s a lot more secure than you would think.”
“Plus all those great recipes.”
“I’m more a take-out kind of guy. All those years of wardroom food.”
“What’s a wardroom?”
“Officers’ mess. But in the Navy.”
“Culinary Institute of America.” Penny shakes her head. “Nice initials.”
“We used to use the chat function on Gem Crunch. You know, the game? But people kept getting distracted.”
“I’m getting dizzy again.”
Hi, Connor types, I’ve been doing Paleo for a month. Do you know if I can substitute coconut sugar? I have some extra bananas, but my doctor says I have to keep things healthy. Blessings.
“I really hope that’s a code.”
“Nothing wrong with a guy looking after his cholesterol.” Connor checks over his shoulder.
“I hate when people sign their emails ‘blessings.’ ” Penny crosses her arms. “Blessings. Do you think you’re Zeus?”
Connor gives her a funny look. “Somebody sounds a little punchy.”
Penny takes a deep breath. The chants outside are getting louder. “So now what? We wait for our banana fritters?”
“My boss monitors this directly. We should get a reply within ten minutes.”
* * *
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
12:14 LOCAL TIME
“Absolutely, Secretary Winthrop. I wanted to dialogue with you soonest.” Christina’s voice is warm, all-American, dependable. Federal Service Barbie. “That’s right. Diplomatic cover. Turkish Agricultural Policy and Food Security desk.” She leans back in her ergonomic office chair. “That’s very thoughtful. I’m sure Connor’s parents would be honored.” She laughs. “Yes, sir. Every vote counts. We’ll send their number over when the time comes.” She smooths her frosty highlights back into place. “Of course. We’ll let your people know as soon as we get confirmation.” A pause. “Brain hemorrhage?” Christina’s voice turns grave. “That poor young woman.” She listens. “I couldn’t put it better myself, sir. You, too. Safe landing in Istanbul.”
In her sunlit corner office in Langley, Christina pops open a can of lemon-lime seltzer with a sigh of relief.
Melek’s already ensured an acceptable explanation for Penny’s death. It wasn’t easy getting Melek to cooperate. Christina had to assure her the girl’s death was already confirmed before Melek would call the hospital. But that’s water under the bridge. Soon, Connor’s accidental death will be official, too.
Then Christina can finally close the drawer on this whole mission malfunction.
It had seemed so promising. But then, doesn’t it always?
The concept had been controversial from the instant Christina proposed it. Still, she’d made a damn good case. The then-President had refused. Fortunately, the CIA Director took a longer view. Administrations come and go. Maybe, he’d hinted to Christina, she could look into things, just a little more. Just scope out the situation quietly. He’d be happy to look the other way.
Christina had done more than scope. She’d covertly approached a powerful friend at State. Robert Winthrop, she’d said, could be the Secretary of State who fixed Syria—maybe even the whole Middle East. When she said that, she could practically see the tiny White Houses in the pupils of his eyes. She didn’t offer too many details, and he didn’t want them.
But then, about a year ago, everything started to go wrong.
“We didn’t, did we?” the Director had asked Christina.
And she’d replied, “Of course not, sir.”
And as far as anyone could ever prove, they hadn’t. Nobody even seemed to suspect it.
At least until Zach Robson started digging.
And apparently started talking to Penny Kessler.
But Christina has fixed it. As soon as Connor’s Turkish death certificate comes through, the well-greased procedure can kick into gear. A knock on his parents’ door with the tragic news. A flag-wrapped coffin in some muggy Georgia cemetery. Get out the chisel and pneumatic hammer and carve a new star on the Memorial Wall of the Original Headquarters Building lobby. Stay at CIA as long as Christina and you’ll bury a few.
Christina glances down at Elastigirl, clinging to the lamp.
A ping from the computer.
Christina leans forward. What she sees makes every muscle in her body tense.
Impossible.
But there it is. A code nine.
They’re alive. Both of them.
“Ma’am?” Taylor’s heels clack an approach.
Christina snatches up the phone before her assistant can round the door. “Yes, Mr. Secretary,” she says loudly into the empty plastic. “We value your optic. Did the President mention anything else?”
Taylor mouths, “Sorry,” and backs away.
Christina stares at the screen.
For a moment, she can see everything she’s worked for spiraling into nothingness. But her composure is soldered in place. She’s not about to lose now.
Time for some damage control.
Melek answers on the fourth ring. “I did what you asked, Allah forgive me,” she hisses. “What more do you want?”
19
* * *
LIBRARY
ANKARA, TURKEY
19:30 LOCAL TIME
From the reference desk, a librarian calls out, “Half an hour to closing!”
Across the stacks, in the computer lab, Penny watches Connor click refresh for the twentieth time. “Still nothing?”
He shakes his head.
“Can we go back to Hürriyet? I want to see if they have anything about Zach.”
“I seriously doubt it.” But he clicks back. “Nope. It’s all stuff about the Embassy. And this.” He leans toward the screen, visibly tensing. “Hashashin Fighters Capture Fourth-Century Mor Samuel ‘Border’ Monastery.”
The photo of Mor Samuel, familiar from her sophomore Ancient Civ lectures, shows an ancient golden fortress, built around a huge central hexagonal tower. Founded by Saint Samuel in the fourth century after Christ, Mor Samuel, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, houses the second-oldest Syriac church in the world. In Ottoman days, Grand Tourists flocked there; a National Geographic cover story twelve years ago drew their modern counterparts. But Mor Samuel hasn’t seen visitors in years, not even pilgrims: it sits just a few miles outside Turkey, across the border with Syria. This accident of geography rankles deeply in Turkey; ten years ago, a coalition of Turkish academics, executives, and expats raised $15 million to restore what many Turks insist is part of their cultural heritage.
“The Hashashin have Mor Samuel?” Penny peers over Connor’s shoulder. “But that’s in Rojava—Kurdish territory!”
“Not anymore.” Connor makes a face. “My boss is not going to like this.”
“So now the Hashashin are within spitting distance of the border?” Penny stares at the screen. “What’s the Turkish army even doing?”
Connor skims the article. “Palamut can’t exactly bomb one of the world’s oldest working Christian monasteries. Not with the monks still inside.” Connor’s voice drops. “And if we’re right, and he’s cooperating with the Hashashin . . .”
“Connor,” says Penny in a low voice, standing up, “why is everyone leaving?”
Around them, agitated students sweep their belongings into purses and backpacks and run toward the door.
Penny taps the arm of a Circassian-looking girl with sharp cheekbones and a long chestnut ponytail, who’s hurrying toward the door. “Where’s everyone going?”
“The police are here.” The girl is hyperventilating. Her narrow face is as white as Kütahya clay. “It’s not safe. My big brother lost an eye in the Gezi protests. My mother made me promise—”
A loud, dry pop comes from outside, followed by howls of pain as a huge, stinging white cloud engulfs the crowd.
Penny’s hands are shaking. She can feel the cold sweat down her back.
* * *
The Embassy.
Limbless bodies in the smoke. Bloody grass. Her own hoarse screaming.
Penny stumbled through the Embassy garden until she saw that stocky body in the grass, dark stains on her purple dress. Eye shadow glittered around Ayla’s dead brown eyes. Beside her slumped her handsome Marine, all broad shoulders and smoldering gold braid.
Ears ringing. Choking now. Her head. The sirens . . .
* * *
Police sirens scream to life outside the library.
“Tear gas.” Connor’s Georgia twang pulls Penny back to earth, as a series of spuming canisters explode outside.
Plastic-helmeted riot police charge the clustered students. Fallen candles roll on the asphalt. Water cannons soak the peace banners. The cheap poster paint starts to run. Penny hears screams as bloodied students crumple under police batons.
“Hey!” The round-faced girl in the rainbow head scarf, the one who loaned Penny her password, hurries toward them. “You’re foreigners, aren’t you?”
Penny is careful. “We . . .”
“They’re saying ‘foreign agents’ started the demonstration. The police are looking for foreigners. You’ve got to get out of here!”
Connor looks up at her. “Is there a back way out?”
The girl nods and beckons them through the stacks.
Connor’s hand is warm and solid on Penny’s arm. “Penny?”
“Coming.” All the soreness of her muscles returns as she tries to keep pace with him through the stacks. Fear and adrenaline are sputtering out, leaving nothing but a terrible gray weariness.
The girl with the rainbow head scarf shoves open a small metal door with a red sign that reads YANGIN ÇIKIŞI.
The fire alarm bellows to life as they tumble out onto the fire escape.
Penny wrenches at the ladder. “It’s stuck!”
Behind them, people scream and bookshelves crash to the floor as the police storm into the library.
Connor grips the ladder with both hands. “It’s rusted into place!”
“There’s no time!” The girl in the rainbow head scarf leaps into the bushes below, landing with a crash of branches. She dusts herself off and beckons them. “Haydi!”
“It’s okay!” shouts Connor “Don’t wait for us! Just run!”
The girl raises her eyebrows and clicks her tongue, the Turkish equivalent of a head-shake no. “I know a shortcut. Come on!”
Connor meets Penny’s eye. “Together, on three?”
“One, two . . .”
A short rush of summer darkness, and the bushes scrape their legs.
“Haydi, come!”
Connor and Penny follow the girl down an illuminated path. No more lazy sprawlers and flirting coeds. Coughing, choking, crying, spitting students stagger down the white gravel, clutching their eyes or supporting blinded friends. Police sirens compete with screaming. The scattered pop-pop-pop of tear-gas canisters fills the darkness. The noises don’t feel big enough for the towering acid clouds that come billowing out.
“What kind of crazy bastards gas a memorial vigil?” sputters Connor. He turns around. “Penny?”
She’s on the gravel, gasping and hacking as the burning tear gas closes around them. The screaming is getting closer. A stitch blazes in her side.
“Come on!” Connor doubles back for her. “Do you know what’s going to happen if Palamut’s police get their hands on us?”
Her eyes are streaming. “Nobody’s asking you to stay!” She tries to stand and lands painfully on her knees. Coughs rock her sore shoulders. She’s so frustrated she could scream.
“C’mon.” Connor crouches beside her and presses his suit jacket into her arms. “Breathe through this. Grab my arm. Up we go. That’s better. One step at a time.”
They come to a road.
“This way,” calls the girl in the rainbow head scarf. “Good luck! May God protect you!”
“Buraya! Çabuk, çabuk!” The elderly driver of a battered minibus, the university’s shuttle service, beckons them aboard.
Penny and Connor crush onto the minibus with at least twenty other students. Penny wedges herself between four other girls on a seat meant for three people; Connor crouches on the floor. Everyone is sniffling, rubbing sore eyes, or gasping between coughs.
Tear-gas residue soaks everyone’s clothes. Penny’s eyes and nose sting and stream. Dabbing at them just doubles the pain. Someone shouts to open the windows as the minibus rattles onto the highway.
The bleached-blond girl wedged to Penny’s right offers her a bottle of bubble-gum-pink antacid to rub into her arms. “Look at you!” she exclaims in Turkish, clicking her tongue in disapproval at the cuts on Penny’s face. “Those monsters.”
A waterfall of electronic trills, as everyone simultaneously receives the same text.
“They’re closing the university until further notice,” a clean-shaven guy in a penguin T-shirt says in English. “For harboring terrorists. Effective immediately.”
“Palamut thinks everyone who won’t kiss his ass is a terrorist,” says the bleached-blond girl.
In the back row, a boy with a weedy mustache is hysterical, clutching at his eyes and howling. His friends hover around him, terrified
Conno
r’s voice comes from the floor. “What’s wrong with him?”
Penny grimaces. “He says his eyes are burning. He can’t see.”
Connor crawls back along the dirty carpet of the minibus to the boy. “Hold still a second, buddy. Let me take a look. Penny, can you make sure he knows what I’m saying?”
She translates, and the boy stops thrashing, though he can’t stifle a moan.
Connor pries open the boy’s tearing eyes. “The tear gas is trapped under his contacts. We’ve got to flush them out. Has anybody got a bottle of water?”
A bottle is passed up.
“Awesome.” Connor squirts the water over his hands. “Hang in there, buddy. Slow breaths. Slow.”
“Sakin ol,” Penny calls to the boy.
Connor turns to one of the boy’s friends. “You tilt his head back. Hold it really still, okay?” Connor flushes water into the corners of the boy’s eyes. With two swift movements, he pinches the warped contact lenses and pulls them out. “Keep your eyes open, buddy. We’re going to wash some of this crud out of there. There we go. You’re doing great.”
The boy’s breathing grows less ragged. His face is shiny with sweat and snot and tears. Everywhere his eyes should be white is veiny scarlet.
Connor leans back. “Penny, ask him if he can see me okay.”
She does, and the boy nods.
“Good man,” says Connor. “You’ll be fine. You’re gonna want to flush your eyes out in the sink as soon as you can. Clean water. Ten minutes at least.”
“Fuck Palamut and fuck his fucking fascist janissaries,” croaks the boy in Turkish. “They can beat up students. Why can’t they beat up the fucking Hashashin?”
Connor looks to Penny. “What was that?”
She tells him.
Connor shakes his head. “Tell him it’s a good fucking question.”
Penny raises her eyebrows. “So you do swear.”
“My momma taught me to save my cussing for special occasions.”
The minibus is quiet, except for the ponytailed Circassian girl, tearfully snuffling into her phone.
The minibus rolls down out of the reddening sunset, into the darkness of a tunnel. In the pale flash of passing lights, Penny can only make out the silhouette of Connor’s shoulders, where he crouches back down on the floor. She wishes she could talk to him. What the hell are they supposed to do now?
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